


Collected Shorts

by caesia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:54:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesia/pseuds/caesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots and drabbles from the universe of ASOIAF. Characters/ships to be added as they occur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue and Red

Sansa worries that she appears too much a Tully, Jon knows, too soft and bright to be a true northern queen. She frets at the red of her hair and the blue of her eyes. _Tully colors_ , she whispers, biting her lip in the mirror. 

But when Jon looks into her eyes, he sees the snowy ground just after sunset, reflecting the inky blue-black of the winter sky. And as her hair shines orange and gold like the flickering fire that warms their room, Jon reminds her that white and grey are not the only colors found in the North.


	2. Stable Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon has trouble adjusting to Winterfell.

Rickon jerks awake as soon as the stable door opens. Shaggydog is already growling deep in his belly, his yellow eyes fixed on the stall door. It slowly opens to reveal red eyes staring calmly back at them, and Shaggydog’s growling is replaced by happy panting. Jon Snow follows Ghost into the cramped space and sits down next to Rickon on the hay-strewn floor. 

“I’m sorry I left my bedroom,” Rickon starts to explain with a guilty frown, thinking of all the trouble he’s already caused for Jon in the week since he returned home, “but it was too hot and it smelled all wrong and Shaggy kept clawing at the sheets…”

He trails off, wondering how anyone can expect him to become Lord of Winterfell when he can’t even manage to sleep in a normal bed, but Jon just lays a hand on his knee.

“Then we’ll sleep here,” Jon says. He wraps his fur closer about his shoulders and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes. Ghost curls up at his feet.

Rickon feels the tension leave his shoulders and forehead as he settles into the hay next to his brother. Hours before, creeping through the deserted halls, Rickon couldn’t get the smell of smoke out of his lungs, and he had wanted nothing but to be back with Osha on Skagos, far from his nightmares. Now, though, tucked between his wolf and his brother, Rickon thinks it might be nice to stay here with Jon. For the first time in a week he falls asleep quickly. In his dreams he sees a tall, dark man with a kind voice and a sword of Valyrian steel on his back, and he thinks it must be his father.


	3. A lady's armor

Sansa dresses carefully before meeting Queen Daenerys and her foreign court. Her pale grey silk isn’t shocking, indeed it's hardly even daring compared to Margaery’s fashions, but it leaves her arms and neck bare, and two fair slivers of skin under her ribs where the fabric parts a bit. She feels exposed enough to decline her maid’s offer to twist her hair up and off her neck. It will do her good to see the loose ends, newly red instead of brown, and feel the heavy drape of its length down her back. Courtesy needn’t be a lady’s only armor.


	4. Letters and Lessons

Rickon _hates_ doing lessons. His hands, itching for his sword and bow and knife, turn stiff and fumbling around quill and ink, and as soon as he is told to sit still and listen, his skin prickles and buzzes and he can’t think straight. Sansa says the Lord of Winterfell must be able to read and write letters to manage his affairs, but Rickon doesn’t understand why the Lord of Winterfell can’t appoint someone _else_ to take care of the actual reading and writing. 

Rickon hates it the most when Maester Halburn teaches him. Sansa says the old man is from the Riverlands, that he knew their mother and it was a great favor for Uncle Edmure to send him to Winterfell until Samwell Tarly finishes his chain, but Rickon thinks Edmure just wanted to get rid of him. He smells like trout oil, and when he tries to get Rickon to take a spoonful before his lessons, to help him focus, it’s only the thought that he would probably taste like trout oil, too, that keeps Rickon from biting him. 

Lessons are much better with Sansa. She has endless patience for his mistakes, his frustrations, even his tantrums, and she lets Shaggy curl up on the rug under his feet while he reads, but she is also an exacting master. He has been practicing signing his name and all his titles for weeks, and still she says it must be better, he must show his bannermen and the other lords that he is more than a wolf-child and capable of ruling. Rickon thinks of the Umbers, who towered over even Jon and drank enough ale to drown a horse the last time they visited Winterfell, and doubts that the northern lords pledge their fealty on the basis of penmanship.

But best of all are afternoons like this one, when Jon comes to visit during his lessons. It’s true that he always asks after Rickon’s progress, shuffling through the papers spread before him on the table, but Rickon knows he really comes to see Sansa. Normally, Rickon gets in trouble for staring out the window during lessons, but when Jon is there he sneaks glances at his cousin and sister instead. Jon will lean close over her shoulder to read the letters she’s saved to show him, and Sansa will look at him with soft eyes and a smile at the corner of her mouth, a real smile, and all the while Rickon will pretend he doesn’t know they are holding hands under Sansa’s desk. Rickon hates doing lessons, but the sight of their hair, dark curls brushing against gleaming copper, makes it easier to hold his pen and still his fidgeting legs. He leans down to give Shaggy a scratch, takes one more peek at his family, and begins again to carefully trace the letters of his name.


	5. Broken Dreams

For years Sansa had dreamed of her wedding above all else. Her maiden cloak would be painstakingly embroidered, the banquet tables would be piled high with peonies and hydrangeas and winter roses, and she would eat all the lemoncakes she liked. Lady would take part, too, of course; Sansa imagined the slow procession toward her gallant husband-to-be, her father on her right and her beloved wolf on her left, with a collar of ribbons woven round her neck.

Neither will be present at this wedding. How different her life would be if she were walking in the godswood with her family at her side instead of climbing the stairs where her father's lifeless head had rolled to the ground.


	6. Dancing Lessons

Jon practically drags Arya up the stairs, but instead of turning left, to the library where he’d asked her to look over some maps, he ducks into the abandoned rookery. Since Sam claimed the rooms above his in the south tower to hold his birds, this room has stood unused, and bits of straw still sit in piles where the floor meets the walls. Arya closes the door behind her and looks at him expectantly.

“I need you to teach me how to dance,” Jon says without preamble. “Before the feast.”

Arya stares in disgust, as if he’s grown three heads. “Truly? You want to learn to _dance_?”  She shakes her head. “I know Sansa has forbidden any training, but surely you can think of something better than _dancing_ for exercise.”

“It’s important that I make a good impression, a capable impression, if I’m to be named Rickon’s regent.”

“You were Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch before Queen Daenerys brought down the Wall. You’ve proven yourself capable enough.”

Jon frowns at the reminder of his aunt. He still has to force his tongue around that word more often than he likes, as he recounts his unlikely ascent from bastard of Winterfell to prince of the seven kingdoms. His reaction is nothing compared to Sansa’s, though, when the queen’s name is spoken. She’d spent six weeks in the queen’s captivity before her Hand had convinced Daenerys that his former wife would make a loyal subject.

The thought of Sansa brings him back to the reason he’s asking Arya for her help. “The whole thing is a political event. We can’t afford mistakes, and that includes me treading on Lady Dustin’s toes.”

Reluctantly, Arya takes up her position in the middle of the room, arms raised. Jon joins her, focusing on the beat as she counts it off and begins to lead him through the steps.

For all her scorn, Arya is a skilled dancer. Lady Catelyn had taken care that her children were well taught, of course. One afternoon, Sansa had persuaded him to join them in their lessons in the Great Hall. He’d watched shyly against the wall as Septa Mordane counted out the steps and his siblings danced. Robb kept stepping on Arya’s hem on purpose, complaining loudly at her clumsiness, but Sansa and Bran had whirled gracefully, laughing as they went. Even baby Rickon had waved his arms from the lap of a nursemaid. Then, just after Sansa had taken his hand and placed it carefully on her side, her mother had entered the room.

“Sansa,” she’d started, calmly, always calmly, with eyes like ice, “let Jon go back to his lessons. Maester Luwin is looking for him.”

“But Jon has to learn to dance, mama! He doesn’t know how.” As a girl, even Sansa’s arguments had been sweet.

“If my lord husband wishes him to learn, he will arrange it. Come, Jon.” Thus ended his dancing lessons.

He no longer resents Lady Catelyn as he once did, though he would never remember her with any fondness. She’d always been especially careful to keep him apart from Sansa, and he can’t help but wonder if perhaps she’d been right to do so.

Slowly, he catches on to the pattern of the steps, and he begins to fight Arya for the lead.

“Stop tugging me to the right,” Arya grumbles.

“I’m supposed to be the one guiding us around. Help me practice.”

“I’m leading. You’ll make us run into something.”

Laughing, Jon stops. “What are we going to run into? The wall?”

Arya gives her short hair a shake. “We’re done. I’m going to find someone to spar with. Remember to bow at the beginning and the end of every dance.” She sweeps out of the room, leaving Jon to continue practicing his steps alone.

 

Wyman Manderly tells another joke, Sansa smiles politely, and Arya takes another gulp from her tankard to hide her impatience. All the important ceremonial stuff had gone without a hitch- Rickon had symbolically ridden through the gates of Winterfell on a black horse with his black wolf by his side, all the lords had sworn fealty, and Jon had been confirmed as regent, just as Sansa and Lord Manderly had agreed. One would think that her sister might see it as an occasion to celebrate, but Sansa remains impeccably polite and detached, just as she always is at public events.

Arya slips away from the high table to sit with Winterfell’s guardsmen. If Sansa scolds her later, she’ll say she was spreading good cheer among the guests. Hearing the fat merman tell another story about himself is more than she can bear. He’s the hero of the day, having returned the heir of Winterfell to his rightful place, but only Arya seems to remember that he’s also responsible for preventing Rickon from going home until he could use the moment to his political advantage.

The musicians finish tuning their instruments and a dramatic flourish from one of the players summons people to dance. Arya looks around for Jon, since he owes her a set for teaching him the steps, but he’s still at the high table, talking to Sansa. He leans in close, so that even Manderly probably can’t hear, and puts a hand on her shoulder. Sansa twists in her seat, shaking her head decisively. They’re arguing, she realizes, and right in front of the whole assembly, too. Sansa won’t forgive Jon if he makes a scene, and Arya stands up to catch Jon’s eye and warn him off.

But then Sansa throws her head back, laughing, and Arya’s jaw drops. Sansa hasn’t laughed _once_ since they were reunited, yet now she’s offering Jon her hand and following him to join the dancers, grinning like a fool.

Arya smiles at the man seated next to her, and soon she’s dancing too, steering her partner ever closer to her siblings. Jon keeps drawing Sansa nearer, his hand wandering around her side to her back, and then she smiles and wriggles away to a proper distance. Finally, Arya gets close enough to reach out and grab Jon’s sleeve.

“You didn’t tell me you wanted to learn to dance so you could seduce my sister!” she hisses.

“Too late!” Sansa chirps triumphantly, and then they’re off, a glimpse of red and black hair twirling away between the couples.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This drabble was inspired by an anonymous prompt on Tumblr. It takes place in the same universe as Down from the Mountain.

“Bottom of the sixth, one out, Direwolves down 2-1 to the Ironborn on this sunny opening day in March!” Sansa reached for another handful of Cracker Jack from the bag in Jon’s lap as the game commentary blared from the TV inside the owner’s box. Her friends from school were all on a spring break cruise to the Bahamas, but Sansa had flown home for the beginning of the Direwolves’ season. 

And to see Jon, of course. Opening day was as much a holiday as Christmas for the Starks, but Sansa enjoyed leaning against Jon’s shoulder while he wrapped an arm around her much more than she did the family photo call before the game. Catelyn always insisted they dress up for the first game of the season, coordinating their outfits in the crisp white and grey of the Direwolves uniforms. Sansa brushed a stray popcorn kernel from her pleated grey skirt and whispered into Jon’s neck, “You don’t have to work in the morning, do you?”

He looked away from a wild pitch to drop a kiss on her forehead. “I’m free until noon. What were you thinking?”

“Can I spend the night at your place? I barely got to see you this weekend.”

Jon glanced around at their siblings, scattered around the seats at the front of the box. “What will your mom think?”

“I don’t care,” she insisted, straightening the collar of his shirt. 

“Alright then. It’s a date.” He kissed her forehead again, then moved down her cheek to her mouth before sitting back in his seat in time to watch the runner on first steal second base. He normally wasn’t this affectionate around her family, but they’d taken seats behind her siblings for a little bit of privacy. Ned preferred to sit down by the field, for a view closer to the one he’d enjoyed from the dugout as a player, and her mom usually joined him. 

The Ironborn pitcher threw two balls well outside the plate, and Arya stood up in a huff. “He’s going to walk him and go for a double play. Anyone want pizza?” Rickon raised his hand, and she walked back into the suite where the Direwolves caterers had laid out an entire buffet. 

But on the next pitch, the batter made contact with a splintering crack, sending the ball high over the outfield…and out of the park. The crowd roared in unison, everyone jumping to their feet to celebrate the Direwolves taking the lead, and Jon hauled her in for a kiss. 

Sansa wrapped one arm around his neck, pulling him closer, and clutched at his shirt front with the other hand. She’d grown used to the way they fit together, tilting their heads to press their kisses deeper, but she didn’t think she’d ever get used to the warm flush he brought to her skin, or the shivers that ran down her back when he tugged lightly at her hair. 

Neither made any attempt to move apart until Arya’s voice rang out from inside the suite. “Ewww, cut it out! You’re on TV!”

“You’re on the Jumbotron too!” Bran added as they broke the kiss. And there they were, cameras zoomed in helpfully to catch Sansa’s burning cheeks and Jon’s rumpled shirt. Flashing a grin, he tucked her against his side while the crowd laughed. 

Then the camera panned across their suite. Rickon was wrinkling his nose while Bran and Benjen smiled, but Robb, glowering at them above crossed arms, drew even more laughter from the spectators. 

“Whoops,” Sansa murmured against Jon’s chest. “I think Robb’s reaction might make the game highlights on SportsCenter.”

He laughed. “Does this mean you’re going to disappear on me when the Kiss Cam comes out during the seventh inning stretch?”

“Not a chance,” she replied. “Let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”


End file.
